Puppet Strings
by Reese S. Quill
Summary: "August can tell lies, and Emma can tell whenever someone's lying. That's what made them such a good team." August goes back to the orphanage to take care of Emma. Slightly AU.


**A/N**: Yes, another what-if-Pinocchio-didn't-leave story. I've done my best to make my own unique spin on it, though. If _Once Upon a Time _was mine, August would have gotten a _real _second chance.

**Part One**

* * *

_"You must learn to choose between right and wrong."_

—The Blue Fairy, Pinocchio (1940)

* * *

Five-year-old Emma Swan's eyes snapped open. She'd had that nightmare again.

She wrapped her blankets around her shoulders, shivering. It was always the same. There'd be a lady – a _beautiful _lady – leaning down to kiss her on the forehead, a man – a _brave _man – who ran around and fought people in black masks while balancing her on one arm, and then the man shoved her into a closet and everything went dark. Although the first part was kind of nice, Emma hated that dream. It was why she always fought going to bed even when she knew that the matron would punish her for it.

_Find us, _the man had said to her.

_Find who? _She wanted to ask. _Where can I find you?_ But as always, there was nothing but the blackness and misery of the orphanage that answered her.

At least it _was _the orphanage, and not some other dingy foster home with people thinking of her as just another meal-ticket. At least she knew that there was someone in the place that actually cared about her. Holding on to that happy thought, she scrunched up her eyes, trying to go back to sleep; the matron said there was another couple that wanted to interview her, and though she didn't _really _want to get adopted – not if that meant being separated from her friend – she had to look her best and make a very good impression if she didn't want bathroom duty again.

After a few more minutes, she sighed and opened her eyes. It was pointless. The nightmare was sticking to her like the smell of pee on Wet Tony, and she wasn't going to get rid of it without help.

Her well-practiced eyes looked around the room. Every girl her dormitory was snoring—the coast was clear. She padded across the room, making sure not to step in any of the creaky floorboards that she'd figured out the hard way alerted the matron if someone was trying to sneak out of bed. Sure that she hadn't been seen, she darted into the hall and ran until she slipped into the boys' dormitory.

The boys' snores were even louder than the girls'. Emma was tempted to cover her ears with her hands, but that would mean she wouldn't hear if someone entered the room. She tip-toed to the tiny, cramped bed by the window—the place where her friend slept if h_e _wasn't in a foster home. If she had been a few years older, she might have decided not to disturb him; he looked so peaceful there, his tawny-brown curls falling around his forehead, his lips curved up in a small smile. It was obvious _he _wasn't having any bad dreams that night.

But Emma was five, and she was frightened. She needed her friend awake.

"August!" she whispered, tugging on his nightgown. "August!"

"Five more minutes, Jiminy." Emma rolled her eyes. August sometimes said the strangest names when he was half-asleep.

"August," she hissed again. "It's _Emma._"

"Emma?" he murmured. He cracked his eyes open and blinked hard, as if to make sure she was real. When he was sure she was, his face took on a sour expression. "Aw, come on, Princess," he complained. "Don't you bug me enough during the day?"

She flushed, feeling silly now. "Sorry. I just had a…had a nightmare."

"Nightmare?" He sat up properly. "What was it about?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, huh?" he said, a small smirk on his face. He stroked her golden curls affectionately, and whispered, "You can't lie to the King of Liars, Emma. You know I'm the best there is."

"Yeah, right. _I _can always tell when you're lying," she said. She was very proud of this fact.

"That's because you have a super-power, Princess. No one else can. Whereas you," he stated matter-of-factly, "are an open book. What was the dream about?" She said nothing. "_Come on, _Emma. You can't have woken me up for nothing. If it makes you feel better, I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier, okay? Now, be honest. What was it about?"

"A curse," she mumbled.

His eyebrows shot up. "A curse, huh? Care to expand on that?" And Emma did, with her voice changing depending on the character and her arms flailing in exaggerated movements to show the action. Not many people paid much attention to her; she loved it when she had anyone's full attention, and August was listening to her raptly. When she was done, he asked, "Tell me, how long have you been having these nightmares?"

"'Bout a month," she replied, frowning. She could almost _hear _his thoughts. "Do you think it's about _the _Curse?" August was always telling her about the Curse. When she was very little, her parents (who were probably the beautiful lady and the brave man) put her in a magical wardrobe that let her go into this world so that she could be safe from the Evil Queen. August's dad sent him too, but a little bit earlier than her.

"There ain't too many big curses out there, Princess," he said wryly. "I'm guessing yeah, that might be part of the Curse. Big question is, why is it happening now?"

"It started on my birthday," she supplied helpfully.

"Mmm, yeah. But you have like twenty-three years to go before you actually need these dreams, don't you?" When she was twenty-eight years old, she was going to have to break the Curse and defeat the Evil Queen. But until then, August was supposed to protect her.

That was his job.

"Maybe it was just a heads-up," she said. "Like a warning or something about to expect. Or maybe it has something to do with the lunar eclipse happening tonight. Kim says that it does funny things to your head."

"Don't believe everything that Kim says," he retorted, but he also looked contemplative. He pulled the ragged curtains of the window until they had a clear view of the night sky. The moon was nowhere in sight, but the stars shined brighter than Emma had ever seen them. She grinned and pointed to the one near the centre, a star that shone so bright it was almost blue.

"That's the north star," she told August. "We learned about it in science class. It's supposed to be able to show you where home is, wherever you go. Even when you're lost."

"Does it?"

Emma glanced at August. He had a strange little smile on his face, like he was remembering something sad and sweet at the same time. Emma wished she knew exactly what she said that brought on that smile. She didn't like it. It was the same smile he wore whenever he talked about the Enchanted Forest, and it always made her feel left out because she couldn't remember any of the stuff he described. "That's probably it," he said finally. "The lunar eclipse. The weird lunar cycle. Should clear off in a few days, I've heard."

"Okay." She bit her lip, still scared but not wanting to admit it. Luckily, August noticed.

"Wanna sleep here tonight, Princess?"

"Yes!" she said immediately, jumping into his bed and snuggling at his side before he could change his mind. After a few moments, a long arm engulfed her and pulled her close.

"You know you're going to have to skedaddle before six a.m., right?" Six a.m. was usually when they did their morning chores. She nodded sleepily. She'd always been an early riser, and she thought she could probably wake up on time. Besides, even if she teased, August really was a very good liar. She was sure he could make up some excuse even if she forgot.

"'Night, August," she murmured, already drifting off.

He whispered her a reply, but by then, she was asleep.

* * *

"Queen Snow and I are glad to announce the upcoming birth of a princess." Prince James—_King _James was smiling proudly, his shoulders squared and upright, his air eager and excited. He had wrapped an arm around his beautiful wife, who was beaming enthusiastically. For a moment, there was silence as the audience – in this case, pretty much the entire kingdom – digested the news.

_It's a lot to take in, _Father had told him later. _After all, the kingdom hadn't known much of happiness as of late. _The Evil Queen had been ruling the land for years, and though her reign had ended, everyone still remembered the misery and fear which she ruled by. Her showing up at the wedding also scared many people, though that had been a few months ago. When King James said he had an announcement, everyone had been expecting the worst.

Then, the crowds went wild.

Out of nowhere, confetti streamed down the streets. Applause rang like thunder, and Pinocchio covered his ears until Jiminy hopped onto his shoulder and told him that might seem rude to people who were watching. Even the fairies were celebrating, shooting sparks into the sky. For his part, Pinocchio was baffled. "Why's everyone so happy?" he asked his father. "Queen Snow's only having a baby. That's not _really _special." He didn't see as much celebrating from everyone when _he_ turned into a real boy.

Not that he wanted much attention. After running rogue onstage and in Pleasure Island, he was actually very glad it was just him and Father and Jiminy.

"All life is special," his father chided him lightly, tweaking him on the nose. He chuckled. "But in this case, my boy…the new princess is also a symbol of hope."

"Hope?" he repeated blankly. How could a _baby_, even a baby princess,be a symbol of hope?

"Yes. Her new life means that our lives go on. That no matter what she says, we _can _move past Queen Regina's horrible misdeeds and begin again." His father smiled wistfully, his eyes twinkling. Pinocchio knew he was thinking about the villages they had helped rebuilt, the goods deeds they'd done. A swell pride entered his heart. He was a _part _of this. "Her life represents a new beginning, my boy. _That's _why people are so happy."

"Then," he said, after a pause, "I'm happy, too."

* * *

Seven-year-old Emma Swan sharpened her pencil solemnly, staring hard at the blank paper in front of her. Earlier today, Tara Johnson had told her that August was always lying to her. She would have stopped paying attention then and there – after all, _loads _of people were saying August was lying to her, and she'd learn to tune them out over the years – but then Tara said that August knew that her parents abandoned her at the side of a freeway, and that he was just telling her all those stories about princesses and magic to make her feel better.

Even then, Emma would have ignored her if she hadn't shown that newspaper clipping. Then it was there, in black and white: SEVEN-YEAR-OLD BOY RESCUES BABY. BOTH UNCLAIMED.

Tara would've probably said more, but she had quickly gotten a knuckle-sandwich, courtesy of Emma's fist. Emma would be punished for that later, she knew. Right now, she didn't care.

Why would August lie to her? She shook her head, backing up. That wasn't a certain fact. Emma had decided to write down the things she knew absolutely for _sure, _before she jumped to any conclusions. Good cops did that. Emma wanted to be a cop one day.

Her eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. Now that she thought about it, there weren't a lot of things that she knew absolutely for sure. Not even the fairy-tale stuff that August always told her about, since he had no proof other than that knitted blanket that had been wrapped around her when she was a baby. _See? _he had told her once, when she'd felt sad in school after parent-teacher day. The other kids had told her that her parents didn't love her at all, and that was why she was in an orphanage. _Snow White, your mom, made that for you. Someone who didn't care about you wouldn't have given you that. _

With hindsight, it could've been store-bought, or maybe a donation from some bored old lady who liked knitting. Or maybe her mom did make it, and gave it to her because she felt a teeny bit guilty in giving her away.

You don't know that_, _she told herself again sternly. She had to start small. Within seconds, she thought of something, and scribbled it down quickly. _August is my friend. _

He'd been her friend for as long as she could remember. Why, she asked, herself, would a boy seven years older than her take care of someone so much younger unless his father told him to? Unfortunately, a huge barrage of answers popped in her head. He could've gotten fond of her after he rescued her. He might've been assigned the chore of minding her by the matron when she was little (the most responsible kids got trust with babies sometimes) and he simply never stopped. Could have, might have, maybe, if….

She was getting ahead of herself again.

What else could she write? She smiled as another fact popped in her head. It might not very important, but it was very entertaining and she teased him mercilessly for it. _August always cries when we watch 'Pinocchio'. _

A few months back, a guy donated a television and a few children's movies. The TV was worn and faded and only worked half the time, and the movies were mostly old cartoons, but all the kids were ecstatic. The first time they'd watch the weird film about a puppet coming to life, August had stared at the screen with that strange bittersweet smile. At the ending, when Pinocchio was turned into a real boy, he'd turned tail and ran out of the room like someone possessed.

Only Emma had noticed. She'd crept after him until she found him in the boys' dormitory, huddled in a corner and sobbing his eyes out. She'd been shocked. August rarely cried if he could help it—he was a boy, after all. She had put her arms around him until he stopped shaking; then, he nudged her away, a rueful smile on his face. _Hey. I'm the one who's supposed to be taking care of you._

_Why were you crying? _She asked. _I thought you'd like to watch your dad. _

_I did, _he assured her. _I just…I miss him and Jiminy so much. _

They'd watched the movie a few times since then. He still cried, but it wasn't as bad as the first time and he didn't mind when she poked fun at it. So, whether he really was Pinocchio or not, she knew that the movie at least had some kind of emotional connection for him. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

She thought of some more things about him, most of them meaningless but somehow comforting.

_August likes his hot chocolate plain and simple._

_He makes faces to cheer me up. _

_He can read very, very fast._

_He runs away from his too-far foster homes so that he could be near me._

_He gets really angry if I try and skip school. _

_He has great grades in everything except science class._

_He's nervous around donkeys. _(Emma had learned that fact when they took a field trip to a nearby zoo. It amused her almost as much as the crying.)

_He loves playing pranks on people, but only if they're harmless._

_He wants to get a leather jacket and a motorcycle someday._

_He likes learning how machines work._

She added another fact that could support the Pinocchio theory, since the puppet was also an artisan's son. _August can fix anything._ Kids in the orphanages often came to him with broken lamps or toys or stuff and ask if he could repair it; then he'd give them a smirk and say that he'd give it a try. A few hours later, it'd be as good as new. Granted, they'd had to do it in secret. The custodian didn't like it very much that August could fix things that he couldn't. Whenever the custodian caught her friend with his special tools, he always confiscated them.

Not that it mattered much. August had helped too many kids for the tools to be gone long—sooner or later, someone always stole them back for him.

After a while, she wrote down something else. _August is good at telling stories. _Not only the stories about the Curse, or even about the Enchanted Forest. Sometimes he made stories up himself, like him and Emma running wild in the jungle or camping around in the desert. _Someday, we'll do just that, _he promised her. _We'll see the world._

_I thought I was supposed to defeat the Evil Queen, _she said doubtfully.

_Yeah. But only when you're twenty-eight years old. _He'd ruffled her hair. _We'll have a bit of time before that, Princess. Why not make the most of it?_

She smiled a little at that, but her fingers twitched nervously. There was something else she needed to write. Taking a deep breath, she wrote, _August is a very good liar._ The best in the orphanage, in fact, though he didn't do it unless he had to or if he wanted something. With just a few words, he could get people do what he liked and usually not get in trouble. Immediately, she added that she could always tell when he was doing it. She underlined it. _I can __always __tell when he's lying. _

It was something that she never in her whole life doubted, and a skill that she was very proud of. If he wanted to, August could fool everyone in the orphanage with a few carefully chosen phrases; but not her.

August can tell lies.

Emma can tell whenever someone's lying.

That's what made them such a good team.

He wasn't lying to her when he told her she was a princess, so she knows that he _must _believe it. But she wasn't stupid. She didn't accept everything he said was true, and she knew what adults thought about him. When she was younger, she'd made a mistake of telling a grown-up that she was a princess, and that August had told her so. What resulted was a whole month of bathroom duty and August being sent to see a mean man in a white jacket. After the punishment had elapsed and August was 'cured', he made her promise never to tell anyone about the stories again.

She knew that pressing him about another version of her past would be pointless. He'd insist that the fairy-tale version was true, and she had to be satisfied with that.

She frowned at the creased, grey piece of paper. Even though she seemed to know a lot about him – definitely a lot more than Janice, his new, awful girlfriend – it didn't seem _enough. _Picking up the pencil, she squinted at the words and wrote one more, undisputable fact.

_August would never leave me._

He had promised her this once in a dark, stormy night, when she was trembling and scared and wanted her parents very, very badly. She'd been so upset at the time, so resentful that they'd throw her away like garbage even though August assured her that they were trying to protect her. _They left me, _she'd kept insisting.

_They saved you, _he countered. _Just like my dad saved me. _He pulled her closer, waiting until she'd stopped hyper-ventilating and relaxed into his arms until he spoke again. _And hey, they didn't leave you alone. You've still got me, Princess. _

_You won't leave me, will you?_

Once upon a time, he did. She had overhead the matron talking about it with one of his foster-parents, and she'd demanded that he explain. It was the summer when they'd been first instilled in the orphanage. She was just a baby. He was a scared, scared little boy with no one to talk to. A kid had told him that they were going to escape and offered to let him come with him, and August had accepted, running away and leaving Emma behind.

He came back two months later.

The guilt had eaten him alive, he'd told her. He hated the thought of her having to fend for herself in the System, treated like a slave when she was royalty. He hated the thought of breaking a promise to his father. He'd turned back, separating from the other children and making his way through the city until he returned to the orphanage. Since then, he'd been taking care of her.

_No, _he'd said, wrapping her in a hug. _I'll never leave you, Emma. I promise. We're sticking together no matter what._

Right now, that was good enough for her.

* * *

The wardrobe was more of a work of art than a place to keep your clothing.

Then again, it never _was _meant to keep your clothing. Pinocchio studied how carefully his father carved the wood, crafting and shaping it until he was satisfied. He'd asked his father earlier why he didn't simply make a quick job of it. Sculpting the doors, handles, and heels wouldn't take so long if he wasn't so precise; if he didn't mind the design, it would be finished within a week, and he and Queen Snow White could go inside more quickly.

(Not that he wanted to—but the Queen's belly was growing bigger, and people were getting worried that she might give birth before the thing was completely finished.)

To which his father replied that the magic wouldn't work if the closet was crude; the same way he wouldn't have turned into a real boy if his father hadn't spent hours meticulously carving every detail of him to perfection.

So not only did it have to be a magical wardrobe; it had to be a _pretty _magical wardrobe.

He'd be annoyed if everyone wasn't convinced it was the only thing that could save their lives.

The thought of the royals right now sent nervous jolts through his stomach. When he was in the Land Without Magic, his only companions would be Queen Snow White and Princess Emma. What would they think of him? Queen Snow was always nice, giving him treats and praising his work, but what would she say when she found out that if not for Pinocchio, her husband could have gone with her? What would the princess, their saviour and the living representation of all the kingdoms' hope, think of him?

Without his father and Jiminy, how was he supposed to be brave, truthful, and unselfish?

"You're worried." Pinocchio nearly jumped when he realized Jiminy was perched on his shoulder. "Sorry, Pinoke. You looked a little green there."

"Yes," he mumbled. He glanced fearfully at his father, who was still absorbed in his work. "Jiminy, I—I don't think I can do this."

"What was that now?"

"I don't think I can do it," he confessed. He felt tears pricking up his eyes. "Father made a deal with the Blue Fairy for me and—and—what if I _can't_ do it? What if I still get turned to wood again, or if I don't survive-"

"Stop it."

Pinocchio stopped. He hadn't heard Jiminy sound so angry with him for a long time. "Listen to me, Pinocchio. I might not completely approve of your father's plan, nor am I completely sure it'll work—but if there's one thing I'm certain about, it's that you _can _and _will _survive in the new world."

"But-"

"No buts," Jiminy said sternly. "You escaped from the puppet-master. You ran away from Pleasure Island. You saved your father from that darn whale, even if it meant sacrificing yourself. Against all odds, you became a real boy because you were brave, truthful, and unselfish. If that…contraption Geppetto's making actually works, I've no doubt you _will _stay that way. You'll survive."

"How do you know?"

"Because," Jiminy drew himself up importantly, "You're _Pinocchio. _You can do whatever you set your mind to. You have a smart head, quick feet and," he smiled slightly, "a brilliant conscience."

"But you're not going to go with me, Jiminy."

"Of course I will. We all will." Jiminy placed his tiny cricket hand over Pinocchio's heart. "In here."

* * *

Sixteen-year-old Emma Swan had been stood up.

On prom night.

She wanted to scream.

Normally, she wasn't one for fancy dresses or huge makeovers – and thank God for that, because it was not like she could afford them anyway – but for this one special night, she had decided to make an exception. She'd gone to a hair salon to get her blonde locks especially styled. She'd tried on what felt like a thousand dresses until the sales lady said she'd found her perfect match, which turned out to be a satin-pink gown that flowed over her curves and cost an outrageous amount of money she had to borrow from August. She drew the line at ultra-high-heeled shoes, but she still compromised with herself for platforms.

Then, she'd waited in the orphanage living room for her date to come.

But after hours of watching the rest of the girls get picked up one by one, it became obvious that that wasn't going to happen. After a while, Milly, one of the most the nicest and most timid girls in the group, finally worked up enough nerve to tell her what was going on. George had wanted to break up with her for ages, but was way too scared to tell her herself (as he should be; she had a reputation for getting into fights). So he figured that if he took Tara out instead and left _her_ high and dry, she'd get the message without actually ever coming face-to-face with him.

"I'm sorry," Milly murmured, patting her hand awkwardly before rushing out with her date.

Emma closed her eyes. The next time she saw George, she was going to punch him to the end of next week.

She didn't know how long she stayed like that – huddling over in silence and feeling sorry for herself – but no one, not even the matron disturbed her; and she didn't get up until a hand tapped her shoulder. "I got a call from the orphanage," a familiar voice murmured. Emma glanced up at August.

At twenty-three, he looked like the type of guy most girls either avoided at all costs (which irritated him) or ogled at and flirted with constantly (which irritated Emma); he kept his hair untamed, his posture furtive, and he was forever wearing that black leather jacket she'd saved up for an entire year for and bought for his birthday. He cupped her face with his hands. "Why the long face, Princess?"

"It's prom night," she choked out.

"And?" He frowned. "Is George late? Did something happen to him?"

"He stood me up."

August didn't get angry easily. As he told her once, you can't be a woodworker – a skill that required persistence and perseverance – if you didn't have a good temperament. (Emma had replied that she'd be helpless as a woodworker, then. He agreed.) But at the news, his face shifted to something deadly. "The bastard," he seethed, standing up. "Where is he? Is he at your school? He has another date, didn't he?" Emma was always an open book to him. He read the answers on her face even when she hadn't replied yet. He strode to the door purposely. "I'm going to _murder _him. I'm going to chop him into pieces and throw him into the fire-"

Emma yanked at the bottom of his jacket. "_No._"

"No? What do you mean, no? You aren't seriously going to forgive this guy, are you?"

She snorted. "Of course not. But _I _want to be the one to punish him—it's only fair," she pointed out. "I was the one who got stood up."

"At least let me hold him while you punch."

"Now _that _can be arranged."

They both grinned at each other mischievously. When he moved out when he was eighteen, he'd immediately petitioned to be her guardian. Obviously, the orphanage refused, so he was forced to limit himself with buying a house as close to the place as possible and visiting whenever he could. She'd been scared that it'd somehow distance themselves, but she'd been worrying about nothing; they were August and Emma still, and they'd kept their tight bond.

"So," she sighed after a pause, gesturing to herself. "I guess all _this _was just a waste of time and money." August's eyes wandered to her dress and hair as if noticing them for the first time. His reaction was _priceless. _His jaw dropped—and then he looked away hastily, a red blush covering his cheeks when he remembered who exactly he'd been looking at. Emma laughed. "Close your mouth, August. A bird might fly in."

"You look nice."

"'Nice'?" she scoffed. "That's the only word you could think of? What kind of writer are you?"

He arched an eyebrow, shaking off his embarrassment. "Excuse me?"

"Just sayin'. I paid like a hundred bucks for this whole get-up only to have it shoved back in my face. If I'm getting compliments, I want my money's worth."

He gave an exaggerated sigh, and bowed deeply. "I apologize, oh-so-magnificent Princess," he said. "You look ravishingtonight. Positively breath-taking, radiant, sublime, resplendent, and pulchritudinous." He smirked when she laughed again. "That enough adjectives for you?"

"What did the last one even mean?" she wondered.

"It means, Emma," he said, his eyes softening, "you look seriously beautiful tonight."

Now it was Emma's turn to blush. "Thanks, August."

"You didn't really want to go to prom, did you?"

Once upon a time, he'd thought she loved all things girly and princess-y. When she was younger, he'd lavished her – as his funds would allow – on tiaras and magic wands and trinkets. And for a time, she loved it. Then she'd gotten tired of the whole pink theme and demanded that if he was going to get her yet another kind of lipstick, she'd rather that she didn't have any presents at all. At first, he was baffled. _"I thought princesses liked these things."_

_"I'm not that type of princess, August. I'm gonna kick butt."_

He'd grinned, and the next time her birthday came around he presented her with two wooden swords. _"Your dad was planning on teaching you how to fence, you know. I can't do it properly, but I figured we could mess around with them." _She had answered by stabbing him in the ribs.

"No," she admitted. "But the girls were making such a huge fuss of it, and George asked me out, so…" She trailed off.

"Are you still planning on going?" he asked. "If you want, I can take you."

"You didn't even attend your own prom." His latest girlfriend at the time had left him heartbroken one week before that night, so he spent it by glowering at a tiny space on the wall and muttering about wanting to turn her into a beetle.

He shrugged. "I can bear three hours of torture if that's what you want."

"Aw, how sweet. But it'd be as horrible for me as you."

"Sure would be entertaining to watch George when he sees you and eats his heart out, though."

"Not worth it. I'd rather have him see stars after I knock him flat."

He smiled. "You can still go somewhere, Princess. Everyone's allowed to go out tonight, right?" She nodded. "How about I take you to dinner?" he offered. "Just you and me. We can go any place you want—except for the petting zoo that has the donkeys." She grinned. _That _sounded a lot better than being stuffed in a room for three hours with hormone-crazed high-shoolers who'd probably spend the time feeling each other up.

"That's fine with me," she agreed. "But under one condition."

"And what would that be?"

"I get to keep on the dress."

They'd ended up going to various bars and dancing like mad, and then popping up at the cinema to catch a late movie. By the end of it all, her dress was so torn and stained that she had no hope for a refund, and her hair was tugged this way and that; but she didn't care one bit. It'd been the best night of her life.

The whole time, everyone had been looking at her like she was beautiful.

* * *

"Why do people want boys more than they want girls?"

The question seemed to startle King James—or, as his wife and the kingdom affectionately called him, Prince Charming. He ran a hand through his short hair. Father had taken to bringing him to work every day, to spend as much time with him as possible before the curse hit. But, while Pinocchio always tried to be a big help, there were times when Father didn't really need a seven-year-old hanging around in his workshop; just as Queen Snow, whose belly had been growing bigger and bigger and had been getting so _cranky _all of a sudden, didn't need her husband hovering around her all the time. As a result, Pinocchio had begun trailing the monarch almost like a lost puppy.

"Why would you say that, Pinocchio?" he asked.

The little boy shrugged. "Well, I heard that you wanted a son before you learned that you were gonna have a daughter. And Father had always wanted a boy." He tilted his head. "Is it 'cause boys can do stuff that girls can't?" He'd heard a few of the trainee knights talking about it sometimes. Besides, he'd always been observant; he'd seen long ago that ladies acted very differently from men, even from gentlemen.

He chuckled. "Pinocchio, if I had thought _that _once, my wife had long since cured me of it. Girls can do anything that boys can, and woe to the male that says otherwise." He leaned down conspiringly. "The first time I met Snow, she hit me with a rock."

Pinocchio stared.

"Not the romantic love-at-first-sight thing people usually talk about," Prince Charming admitted. "Anyway, I'm sure you know I wasn't always a prince. Once upon a time, I was a shepherd. That's kind of where my hoping for a son stemmed from. There weren't many female shepherds, at least where I was. It always seemed more practical for me to have a son who could help out." He looked at him intently. "I'm _very _happy to have a daughter, Pinocchio; I'm planning to teach her everything I would've taught to a son, if…" He trailed off.

_If I have a chance, _Pinocchio finished silently. Out loud, he said, trying to keep things cheerful, "Like horse-back riding? Shooting arrows?"

He laughed. "Yes and yes. I'll be throwing in sword-fighting, too."

"Wow!" Pinocchio exclaimed. Father had emphasized how important the school was – until they learned about the curse, and education took second place to them needing to spend as much time together as possible before they were separated – but he'd never learned anything as interesting as that. "Princess Emma is very lucky."

"Mmm." Prince Charming was wearing a sad, knowing smile. "Tell you what, Pinocchio. When I teach my daughter how to fence, I'll summon you to the palace. Then you could learn how to use swords together."

Pinocchio smiled. "I think I'd like that very much."

* * *

Eighteen-year-old Emma Swan looked at the man in front of her like a deer trapped in headlights.

As soon as she had gotten out of the system, August had been waiting for her eagerly. She knew that ever since he turned eighteen, he'd been working and saving like crazy so he could keep those promises of world-travel and adventures that he'd made her when they were kids. At twenty-four, he'd struck gold. He always had a talent for telling stories, and apparently people paid a lot for a few well-written short ones.

But while she was touched by what he did, she had to disappoint him.

_"What do you mean, 'I can't'?" _he had asked, mystified. _"Wasn't this what you wanted?"_

"_I just want to stay by myself for a bit. Try to stand up on my own two feet."_

_"It's my job to protect you."_

_"I don't want to be protected anymore."_

She had hurt him, she knew, and she was really sorry about that. But the truth was, she had _enough _of all the crazy, the pressure of being _good _that she always felt from him. After all this time, he truly believed she was royalty. She _did _think of getting him to see someone, but just because she could tell when August was lying, doesn't mean anyone else could. He'd be 'cured' within a week, and all that would accomplish would him to mistrust her. And, she supposed, a part of her (the little-girl part that clung to her friend) couldn't help but believe it as well. Still. August had put up with her because he somehow felt some sort of obligation to protect her, and then fondness pretty much took it from there. And he was her _only_ friend.

Sometimes, she thought that all he saw was _Princess Emma_.

She needed to know if someone would actually like _Emma Swan_.

In the end, August had agreed, on the condition that she kept him updated with phone calls. She refused all offers of money of him, preferring to use her meagre savings that she'd earned flipping burgers in her senior year. Maybe that wasn't such a bright idea. By the third month, she was down to her last hundred bucks, and she'd already been forced to move out of her apartment (Thank God that she'd given August her cell phone number instead the one attached to her residence.) But pride wouldn't let her go crawling back to her friend.

By the fourth month, she'd been reduced to attempting to steal a car.

So much for standing on her own two feet.

The car, however, turned out to be a pretty big piece of luck. As she was revving the car out into the street, the guy whom she thought was the owner popped out of the back seat. She thought she was done for when that police officer pulled up. Then, he covered for her.

Turns out that she had stolen an already-stolen car.

Neal was amazing. Unlike everyone else except August, he just accepted her weirdness and utter inability to make friends, confessing that he had a bit of a strange side himself and left it at that. Not for one second had he judged her. With him, she'd always felt so free. No looks that told her he expected the best from her. No scoldings about morality and all that crap. It was as if she was a bird and her wings had been tied up, and now his touch had set her loose. They were so wrapped up in each other, and so isolated from the world.

It wasn't much of a surprise that she had forgot to return August's phone calls. Due to the fact that Neal and her were planning to go to Tallahassee after their latest heist, for the past few weeks she had forgotten almost entirely about him.

Until now.

Angry didn't even _begin _to describe August. He was absolutely livid—he honestly looked like he could murder right then, and for the first time, all that anger was directed at _her. _They'd had their fights over the years, but he was the one who always brushed it off or apologized in the end. For the first time, Emma was scared of him.

"A-August," she stammered out, shoving the box of watches in Neal's hands. Her cheeks flamed red. This was the first time since she'd met Neal that she'd felt even a twinge of shame about her actions. "I can explain."

"Explain," August repeated, laughing bitterly. He made his way towards them, his hands in his leather jacket. "You want to _explain._" He shook his head in disbelief. "There's no need, Emma Swan. I have _all _the explanation I need."

"August-"

"You call this making a living for yourself, Emma?" He banged a fist against the car. "You call this a _home_? You told me—you told me you were trying to _help _yourself. You promised me you'd call. Do you know how _fucking _worried I was?" He strode right up her. She flinched. "I thought something happened to you," he stated coldly. "I thought you were captured, or jailed, or—hell, you could have _died_ and I would have no idea! And then here I find you, running around with some punk and stealing watches. Did you think you wouldn't get caught?"

"Whoa, whoa, wait." Emma's eyes were panicked. "The cops found out I stole the watches?"

"Yep. Some of them _do _watch the security videos, Emma."

"We've got to-"

"Get out of here?" August interrupted. "No, you don't. I took care of it."

Emma frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I was the right place at the right time, and I gave the cops a bit of a bribe to let this case run cold." His expression turned frosty. "You're both clean. The watches are yours."

Emma didn't know what to say. "I—August, I'm...I…" She took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. "Thank you."

"For what?" he asked, wryly. "Bailing you out? Saving your skin?" He closed his eyes, and just like that, all his anger seemed to dissipate; simply leaving her old friend looking so very, very tired and so very, very lost. She wanted to put her arms around him again. "Whether you like it or not, Princess, that's kind of my job."

And that was when Neal interrupted.

"Job?" he asked in a disbelieving tone. He turned to Emma, utterly confused. "Who is this guy, Em? An old boyfriend or something?"

Emma flushed. "No, Neal, this is August. He's…an old friend. We were in the same orphanage."

"Oh." Neal fidgeted a little. "Uh, thanks, buddy. We really appreciate the gesture." August nodded mutely. "You probably want to know about our plans, don't you?" He laughed nervously. "Um, me and Em are planning to go to Tallahassee. You don't have to worry about her there; I promise, we're staying on the right side of the law from now on."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

Neal blinked. "What?"

"I mean, Emma can't come with you to wherever you're going." He stared at her, hard. "She has certain responsibilities to uphold."

At first, she had no idea what he was talking about. Then it dawned to her. "Oh, come on," she groaned. "You have _got _to be kidding me, August. _This _again? Tell me you're not doing this now."

"Emma, I've told you from the very beginning-"

She flailed her arms around wildly. "Listen to me, August. There _is no curse._ There is no Enchanted Forest. My parents _abandoned _me. _Your _parents abandoned you." August stumbled backwards like he'd been struck. For a moment, she wanted to take it back, but she pressed on. "I'm no princess. You're not a puppet. And there is _no such thing as magic._"

August stared at her like she was a stranger. "You've never believed me, have you." It wasn't a question.

"I did. Once." She crossed her arms. "But reality caught up with me."

"You have no idea what you're saying."

"Look who's talking!"

"Well excuse me, Princess, but even I can't hand everything to you in a silver platter-"

"Hello?" Neal waved a hand out half-heartedly. "Still here."

"Stay out of this!" August snapped, turning to him. "It's because of _you _that she-" August froze. In an instant, his expression changed from irritation to shock and faint horror.

"August?" Emma said worriedly.

"_You_," August breathed. "I know you."

"What?" Emma spun around to Neal.

He held up his hands. "I have no idea what he's talking about." He turned to August. "Look, buddy. Like I said, I really appreciate you bailing us out, but Emma's got a life of her own now. You've really gotta let her go. It's becoming, um, obvious that you've got some problems, but we can make sure that someone takes a look at that and-"

"I know you're Baelfire."

After that, it all went to hell.

* * *

Emma didn't know how it happened.

But after the word _Baelfire _came out from August's mouth, Neal had clammed up and started demanding who the hell were they, were they following him, he was _not _going to let him go back. Emma's jaw dropped. She had never seen him so _scared _before. August began explaining about the Curse – her attempts to stop this conversation were met with harsh glares from both men, much to her shock – and, what was even more freaking unbelievable, Neal was actually _buying _it.

_Neal _was buying it.

Figures.

Finally, his shoulders slumped in a defeated way, and as soon as he met Emma's eyes she knew that they weren't going to Tallahassee. "I'm sorry," he said. "But—Emma, where you're going, you're going to have to face my father." That was one of the few things Emma made sense from their crazy talk; August had known Neal's father (who was apparently Rumpelstiltskin, when the fuck did that happen) and for whatever reason, Neal was _not _happy about it. "And, Em, that's something I just can't do. Even for you."

Emma stared at him. "What are you saying?"

"I can't stay with you."

The words hit her like a punch in the gut, and all of a sudden she's sobbing and digging her nails into him and down on her knees begging him not to leave her. Even August looked a little uncomfortable. "Look, Neal, this _does _change a few things. Maybe we were meant to find you. You can come with us-"

"No," he said, looking straight at Emma. "I can't." That just set her off sobbing harder. Neal had to peel her away from him. "If it were _anything _else, Em, I would have done it for you. I swear."

"That's a real comfort," August muttered.

Neal shot him a look, and then grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from his pocket. He scribbled something on it and handed then handed it to Emma. She was tempted to tear it to shreds on the spots, but she _couldn't. _It was Neal. "Here," he said, closing her fingers around it. "That's my phone number. I promise you I won't change it, all right? If you ever need me – for _anything _– I'll just be one call away. Okay?"

She couldn't answer. She was still crying.

"I love you, Emma," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."

And just like that, he was driving away. Neal had left her.

_Neal _left her.

Neal _left _her.

Neal left _her._

The crippling grief and heartbreak changed into anger.

And it was all August's fault.

"Emma," he said, his hand gripping her shoulder tightly. "We have to go now."

"_We_?" she spat, jolting up. "What do you mean, 'we'? There is no 'we', August."

He stared at her blankly. "What-"

"You did this," she snarled, waving vaguely at the direction where just a few minutes ago, the car, Neal, and her whole _life _was. "I was doing just fine, I was living my own life for once and someone actually loved _me,_ and then out of nowhere _you _came around and destroyed that!" He shook his head and tried to step towards her, but she backed away against the wall. "Stay away from me! Stay the hell away from me!"

"Emma-"

"No!" She covered her ears—a childish move on her part, but a necessary one. If he started talking to her, countering all her anger with rational arguments, she'd start _listening _to him again and probably let him take her home, and right now, that was something she didn't want. She could take care of herself. "Leave me alone! _I hate you_!"

She ran and didn't look back once. She already knew what she'd see.

* * *

There were the dungeons, and there was the Dungeon.

Pinocchio had been to the dungeons before, when he and his father had been invited to the palace as guests and not as craftsman who the entire kingdom's destiny depended upon. The Huntsman had always been very nice to him – despite what people said about the man working for the Evil Queen – so when he was bored and said he wanted to r_eally_ help, he let Pinocchio bring food to the criminals while he supervised near the doorway. With hindsight, it probably wasn't the best job to give to a child; but the Huntsman was probably thinking about wolf cubs, not human children, and he'd deemed him responsible enough.

The Dungeon was a very different place. It housed only one prisoner; and he was the most dangerous of all, even more than the Evil Queen.

Pinocchio's stomach sunk as he descended to the deep, dank underground. He knew he shouldn't be here; he _really _shouldn't, and if Father and Jiminy knew where he was they'd throw a fit. (At least Jiminy would—his father would give him a disappointed look, and that'd be even worse.) But something was pulling him. He couldn't explain it, but something in his head was telling him that if he didn't go, he wouldn't be able to help Queen Snow or Princess Emma.

In the harsh darkness, it had taken a while for the guards to spot a short little boy. But spot them they did. "Hey! You!" a burly one that had his helmet askew called. "Kid! What are you doing here?"

Pinocchio hadn't lied in a very long time. He had learned his lesson – painfully – before, and he knew that it was a Bad Thing. But this time, he had no choice. He took a deep breath. "I'm very sorry for startling you, kind sirs. I didn't mean it; I'm only here to send a message. I'm here with the Royal Badge, see?" he said, showing them the one that King James had given to him and his father to show that they had access to every part of the castle. The guards visibly relaxed.

"The Huntsman said that you guys can take a lunch break," he said, the words slipping out with ease. He had always known what exactly appealed to his listeners, maybe an effect of his time onstage. "Besides," he added, when he saw some of them were still unsure. "The Curse is gonna hit soon anyway, which means that keeping a prisoner locked up won't be much use."

"He's right," someone muttered. "Why are we doing this again?"

Pinocchio blinked. His lies weren't _that _good. The Dark One must be doing something. He shifted his feet guiltily, and said, "I guess you better go."

"We better go," all of them repeated obediently, walking to the exit.

As soon as they were out of earshot, applause rang out from inside the cell. It made Pinocchio's skin crawl. "I'm very impressed, dearie," a lilting, teasing voice called. "Grown-ups are experts in lying to everyone, especially themselves. Who knew a little boy could be even better?"

"It's wrong to tell lies," Pinocchio said timidly.

"But you just did." The Dark One stepped into the light—a thin man, with straw-like hair and mottled skin that shone like bronze and gold stepped into view. "And you did it to see _me. _So. What can I do for you, dearie?"

"I was hoping you can tell _me _what to do," he admitted.

"You mean about how you and your daddy are betraying the entire kingdom by putting you inside it instead of another royal?" The strange man snickered at Pinocchio's horrified face. "If you're here for reassurances and hugs, dearie, you've come to the wrong place."

"I came here to help!" he burst out.

"Help?"

"I—um…" He looked down. "I know it's wrong," he said guiltily. "I'm gonna be taking one of the princess's parents from her, and I know that's very bad. But…I don't wanna die. And Father really wants me to go in the wardrobe." His voice was wobbly and unsure. But when he looked up, his eyes were full of determination. "If I'm gonna take one of the royals' place, I want to at least _help._ Is there – anything – I can do for them?"

"Besides your basic skills of lying, dancing jigs, and turning into a donkey?" Pinocchio flushed. "You're simply going to have to find out yourself. After all, even I can't tell you who _you _are." The man smirked.

"I thought you could see the future," Pinocchio accused.

The Dark One sighed. "Bits and pieces, dearie. The future on the other side is even more unclear."

"So you can't help me at all?"

"Did I say that?" The man shook his head and grinned at Pinocchio, showing his yellowing, pointed teeth. "I can give you a gift," he offered, in a sly tone. "A gift that might allow you to help."

Pinocchio frowned suspiciously. "Magic always comes with a price," he said, reciting from memory. The Blue Fairy and Jiminy had always told him so, and after Pleasure Island, it wasn't something he was going to forget very soon. "Especially with you. I don't wanna make a deal."

"You weren't paying attention again," the man said in a sing-song voice. "I didn't say deal. I said _gift." _He smiled. "And believe me, in _that _world, it might be more of a curse than a blessing. That is the price you will pay."

"Why would I want it, then?"

"Let's just say there's going to be trouble with the wardrobe and the princess's birth," the Dark One said. "Queen Snow won't be much of a help, and everyone's going to have, ah….memory issues." He gave high-pitched giggle that almost made Pinocchio jump up three feet high. "Anyway, this _gift _I give you will allow you to know exactly who everyone is in our world on sight, whether you've met them before or not."

"What's the down-side?"

"_You'll _know who they are, dearie. I didn't say_ they _would."

Pinocchio's stomach plummeted. No one had ever actually given concrete information about the Curse – it was just this bad, looming thing that could strike at any moment. "Does that mean…my father would forget me? And Jiminy? And King James?"

"Can't tell you. That's a spoiler!" He laughed his high-pitched giggle again. "And if you tell anyone this before the curse is enacted, I'll take away your voice! That'd be a pity, wouldn't it? Being mute _and _a stranger in a new world? You won't even be able to tell your pretty little lies." Pinocchio gulped. "So, dearie? Do you accept the gift?" He held out a hand through the bars.

After a moment, Pinocchio shook it.

An electric wave coursed through his body, bending his knees and making his head spin. He moaned, rubbing his forehead. The man simply laughed. "You better go, dearie. The guards are coming," he informed him. Another high-pitched giggle. "And they're very angry with you!"

Pinocchio ran.

* * *

She didn't let August in for nearly a year.

Somewhere between crazy-talking with her friend and trying to placate her as she cried her heart out, Neal had managed to stuff an envelope full of money in her bag; and thank God, it hadn't fallen out when she had run like mad from the spot. The money had provided her with fuel to _keep _running; to drive from spot to spot grabbing whatever food she could along the way and housing in tiny motels that smelled like pee. It was pretty useless, though.

In the end, August always found her.

If she was honest with herself, she knew she would've forgiven him three months after the incident—when she had finally gotten it into her head that it was _Neal's _choice to run, and that he did it probably not because he was some fairy-tale character's son, but because he had either gotten tired of her or he thought August's crazy might rub off on them. Either way, she wasn't going to forgive _him. _

Nope. The reason that she didn't talk to her friend again was because after a month, when she was finally contemplating on the possibility, she had begun projectile vomiting in the mornings.

By the second month, she was starting to realize what she'd caught wasn't just random sickness.

By the third, her stomach was starting to protrude and she couldn't, _couldn't _face him.

So she hid. She moved from place to place without warning, and when he eventually found her again and he'd be knocking on her door begging her to let him inside, she'd scream at him to go away and that she still hated him. (It had become a lie around the fourth month. By then, all she wanted to do was crawl into his arms and let him comfort her.)

When her abdomen started cramping so much that she almost began screaming, she dragged herself into a taxi only when she was sure he wasn't watching her room, and then gave birth at the farthest hospital as possible. The driver had thought her crazy, but she had given him a large tip so he wasn't complaining.

It wasn't a difficult birth. At least that's what the nurses said. What Emma could remember was screaming and thrashing and, at one point, ranting about Snow White and random fairy-tales, but it'd been over with eventually; and then the placed the tiny bundle of limbs in her arms, and her heart leapt even though she had sternly ordered it no to. The little guy's cheeks were puffy and red. His toes fingers and toes were perfect; and already, there was a tuft of dark hair on his head. His eyes were pools of vulnerability, potential, and a chance of unconditional love.

She signed him away the next morning.

The kid (she didn't even give him a name) wouldn't have been happy with her. If there's one thing she's learned the last two years, it was that the only thing she was really good at was screwing things up. Maybe not all the time, granted. But the kid had looked at her with so much _trust _and she loved him so damn much and she really didn't want to take any chances. The home she sent him was good. He'd have a comfortable life there, safe and secure, and he didn't have to miss her one bit.

She didn't cry when they took him away from her. She was still in the hospital bed, tired and sore, and it didn't hit her yet that she had seen the kid, her _child, _for what was probably the last time.

Then a stocky nurse with a face like a gorilla informed her that there was a man named August Booth demanding to see her, and does she want to give him permission to enter?

Emma bit her lip and said yes. Five seconds later, a dishevelled-looking August was at her side, holding her tightly as she sobbed and beat into against chest. Bit by bit, she explained what had happened to her; about Neal, about hiding her pregnancy for as long as possible, for the recent birth of her son and the even more recent closed adoption. He'd listened to her patiently until she began berating herself for being so _stupid. _

"Hey," he said, rubbing circles in her back. "You weren't ready, Emma. You wanted to give him his best chance. That's not something you should be beating yourself up about."

"You think I did the right thing?"

"I can't say that for sure, Princess. But I can say," he said, lifting her hands and looking straight into her eyes, "you did the best you could do under the circumstances." That set her off again; and he hugged and rocked her just like when she was a little girl and really, really wanted her parents. "It'll be okay, Emma," he whispered soothingly into her hair. "It'll be okay."

* * *

Pinocchio's father had given him up, too.

_"You will find me again. And on that day, I will look at you with pride. You'll be a great man, my son."_

He'd never resented him for a moment.

* * *

Emma Swan groaned as she trudged towards her apartment. August had left her like twenty-five missed calls. He was going to be pissed.

To be fair, she was busy finishing her job up for the night—and it was a chase-job, too. Soon as the guy got clued in on who exactly she was, he'd bolted, slamming the table up to her knees and running for his car. Hadn't done him much good in the end; he'd been forced to wait in his disabled car as she stomped towards him in all her pink-dress-with-attitude glory. "And you looked so hot, too," he muttered as she cuffed him.

Well. She _had _been saving up for this dress for a while, and she was glad that somebody noticed, even though she hadn't shown it to her designated audience yet. Her favourite part about buying a new dress was always August's reaction. It mostly ended with him blushing scarlet, saying something silly, and running out of the room until he composed himself. Then he showered her with compliments.

Today was different, though.

Today was her birthday. And not just any birthday, either.

The big two-eight.

She sighed again. She'd been dreading this day for a long while; today was the day, he had assured her since she was small, she would meet her destiny. Yeah, right. He'd wanted her to stay home from work today so they could talk about it more, but she would hear none of it. Being a bail bondsman may be a little tiring – especially when it came to the paperwork – but when she had cases like these, with her chasing the bad guy down and fighting dirty, she absolutely loved it.

Besides, _he _was the one who insisted to continue with her education after the whole Neal incident. What else was she supposed to do with her criminology degree?

Maybe that was a bit unfair to him, she thought, guilt creeping up on her as she checked her phone and gotten yet another text message from him. She entered the elevator and pushed the button. Actually, she had no problem staying home from work to take care of him if he was sick or if she'd taken a late night and simply needed a breather. Most of it really was just because of her birthday.

And while she mostly made a point to avoid all his crazy-talk, the least she could do was hear him out for an hour or two. It wasn't like anything was going to happen. Maybe then, when no mystical apocalypse thingy showed up, he'd be cured of all the fairy-tale junk.

She did owe him a lot, after all.

After the long day at the hospital in which she'd spent the majority of crying into a pillow while he looked on helplessly, he'd woken up the next day with a determination to start fresh. She'd been desperate, then. She'd wanted to go back to Plan A – let him take care of everything, go on adventures – but he'd outright refused. _"You were right, Emma," _he'd said. _"You needed to learn how to look out for yourself."_

He wasn't prepared to let her out in the wide world without him again, though.

In the end, they'd come up with an arrangement that suited both of them. August's income _way _exceeded hers, but he would only pay exactly half of the rent in whatever place that she could afford; she'd have to come up with the rest on her own. The result? It restored her self-confidence, a little. She couldn't help but be proud that she'd managed to support two people mostly by herself. He contributed very little to their own budget in their daily lives other than the necessities.

But come winter and summer, they'd both pack their bags and go on whatever wild vacation he planned out. Last year, they'd gone on a desert safari in Dubai. Before that, it'd been to Africa with the lions.

If she was completely honest with herself, this was also partly the reason she didn't want the whole doomsday thing happening. If he insisted on whisking her away somewhere so she could fulfil some prophecy or whatever, can't it at least wait until after their trip to Phuket? Emma had been looking forward to that.

Dismissing her thoughts for a moment, she slid the silver key through the door. Before she could even turn the lock, August slammed it open. Emma blinked. Whoa. He must _really _be pissed. "Look," she said hastily, before he could open his mouth, "I'm really sorry for being late, but the guy held me up, and I needed to sign a few documents so-"

"Emma." August had a strange expression on his face. "We've got a visitor."

Emma blinked again. Both she and August, despite him having a new girlfriend every three months, were pretty much loners—their only frequent visitor was the pizza guy. She was getting a bad feeling about this. "Who is it?"

"Is that her?" a voice asked behind him before he could reply. A little boy, about nine or ten years old, stood in the hallway holding a bag of Doritos. He had floppy brown hair, pale skin, and the kind of smile that made you go a little warm inside. He directed the question at her. "Are you Emma Swan?"

"Yeah," she said suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"I'm Henry," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. "I'm your son."

Oh, crap.


End file.
